


Minor Fall/Major Lift

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Kylux Hard Kinks Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biting, Body Worship, Frottage, Hair, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Rough Kissing, Spit As Lube, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-16 21:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11260965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: Ren departs after the destruction of Starkiller, taking a bit of Hux with him when he goes. Upon his return, Hux takes it back.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> In response to this kyluxhardkinks prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Hair kink with a bit of a twist. Hux & Kylo are both obsessed with hair, both their own & each other's. Whenever they're physically parted they stop washing their hair- Hux applies more gel, Kylo braids under his helmet. Once they can be together again (say Kylo returns for a mission) their foreplay consists on washing the blood & grime out of each other's hair, untangling the knots & enjoying being cared for. Can extend to body hair too if the writer so wishes._
> 
>  
> 
> It did get a bit away from me. I think it's a bit more angsty and symbolic than the prompter wanted but I hope you all still enjoy it.

“How long?”

Kylo clenches his jaw and closes his eyes against the gentle fingers sliding through his hair and tracing the stitches of braiding at his crown. He’s freshly clean, smelling faintly of bacta and soap. His skin is tight, largely healed but still tender. He turns away from Hux and looks out toward the empty expanse of realspace beyond the viewport.

_However long it takes to scour the failure from my flesh._

_However long my Master deems._

_However long before the power and freedom promised with my father’s death manifests._

_However—_

“I do not know.”

“He won’t let you return to—to the Order. The _Finalizer_.” Hux draws his hand back and clenches it at his side, nails digging into the tender flesh of his palm. “My fleet will no longer be chasing Jedi, then?”

Ren clears his throat, unsure of how to answer and refusing to dip into Hux’s thoughts.

“Will you have access to a comm unit?”

“Doubtful.”

Hux makes a sound of agreement, a grunt low in his throat, and paces away. He sits down heavily at his workstation, training his gaze at the screens though unfocused on the unending stream of data. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, running his tongue against the split that runs up one side and extends crookedly over his top lip. He’d waved away treatment, accepting only a butterfly against constant re-opening.

_Something to show for my trouble. What is a soldier with no evidence of his experience?_

Kylo hesitates, stepping toward the door and turning back. “You’ll finally have sole command of your ship again. You should be glad.”

Hux purses his lips, eyes hard. “I am.”

He looks up at Kylo, scrutinizing, beckons him without having to move of speak. He seizes Kylo by the front of his tabards when he draws near and yanks him close. Hux’s breath is hot against Kylo’s face while his eyes search, darting frantically over each feature and back again. His lip curls up, quivering and distorting the poorly mended injury. He bares his teeth and cranes his neck upward, waiting for Kylo to meet him.

It’s a violent clatter of teeth. Kylo bites, ravaging the tattered skin of Hux’s bottom lip, pulling, sucking. He hisses, the retaliation swift and unkind. He pants, pressing his forehead too hard against Hux and opens his mind. He knows Hux can feel it—it’s not a stealthy skill in the slightest. He shakes, the onslaught of trepidation and anger and _need_ overwhelming.

Hux kisses him, hands still curled tight into the stiff fabric of the tabards. “Careful, Ren.”

Kylo’s hands are rough moving through Hux’s hair. It’s gotten long—or it feels long without pomade to tame it into regulation. He thinks of yanking off his gloves, of indulging in one last caress, something he can hold in his hands and his mind, a memory of softness to weather the hardness that’s undoubtedly coming.

He curls his hands in Hux’s hair, seeing with his mind and memorizing the gradient of gold to copper in ways that eyes as too poor to manage. He steps away, a soft snarl from Hux as he releases his hair.

Without another word, hesitation held at bay, Kylo is through the door.

His shuttle is waiting. Flight technicians are clustered nearby, administering final checks of the engine and fuel systems, ensuring that the nav is properly calibrated. Kylo boards the shuttle, empty save for himself, and settles in the cockpit.

He can hear them, a whisper on a thread of the Force—

_\--his face._

_\--his eyes—feral, like an animal._

_\--that scar! Thought it would be worse._

_\--human._

_\--where? There’s no destination listed—_

Kylo breathes in deeply and blocks them out. He waits for the _all-clear_ and keys in his launch codes. The machinery hums to life around him, vibrating at a frequency that is something like the one he feels on the rare occasion that a complete Trooper squadron is sleeping in their assigned barracks. Hands gripping the yoke, he eases the Upsilon out of the hangar bay and into the darkness of realspace beyond.

The craft cuts easily through the airless vacuum and when he’s reached an appropriate distance from the _Finalizer_ , he engages the hyperdrive.

Kylo slouches in his seat, both relieved and overwhelmed. He glances across the control panel and sees that the systems appear to be running smoothly, the blue-white light of hyperspace glittering off of the ‘steel and duraplast and the sleek transparisteel screens. His eye catches on a bright spot and he looks down at his hands.

Several blond and copper strands cling to the worn leather of his gloves, trapped in the creases of his fingers and the precisely stitched seams.

Autopilot engaged for the moment, Kylo carefully unwinds the strands and runs them through his fingers. He has a mind to drop them, sentiment has no place where he is going.

And yet.

Gathering hair from just behind his ear, Kylo weaves the bit of Hux, unwittingly stolen, into himself. He knots the end of the slim braid and tucks it away, hiding it. He keys a code into the comm and waits for a response. Snoke’s radiation-marred image flickers over the small holoprojector in the dash.

“Master,” Kylo says, breathless in anticipation.


	2. The Order

Hux is bent over a map, scrutinizing radiation residue patterns and tiny _blips!_ of energy left behind by objects entering and leaving hyperspace. He nearly startles as Unamo comes up behind, clearing her throat softly. The whole crew is like a gaggle of ghouls—dark circles under their eyes, all in varying states of battered and bruised even months after S _tarkiller_.

“We’ve finally got a lock on it, Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Their retreat pattern, the Resistance craft from—“ Unamo stops herself before she finishes the thought. “They bounced around through several systems to ensure we couldn’t physically pursue, but the radiation signatures are too promising not to give it a long consideration.”

“We’re sure these are reliable?”

Unamo nodded and inclined her head toward the map Hux was standing over. He stepped aside and allowed her to manipulate the coordinates. “The tech is still in beta, but it’s been tested enough—and if they’re not there, well, perhaps the system will be worth looking over anyway.” She dials in a string of numbers and a system blinks to life on the holoprojection. She expands it, nudging the different radiant signatures to pulse.

“The Ileenium system?”

“D’Qar, specifically.”

Hux nods, lips pursed. “Notify spec-ops.”

Unamo straightens up, squaring her shoulders and filling her chest with air, “Yes, General.”

Alone again in the war-room, Hux’s heart trips into a double-step. Sweat pin-pricking against his hairline, he breathes in deeply through his nose until his belly is full and blows it out slowly through pursed lips. Markers on the holoprojection pulse and he tightens his fingers into fists. Without his gloves, long since lost in the frantic rush to escape _Starkiller_ , his ragged fingernails bite into skin. It’s become like a mantra—the slightest slip of control is grounded again by the sharp pain that lances through his hands and tickles up his arms.

Hux remembers a time when his skin was splotchy and red, his limbs too long, his voice wavering. His palms and fingers had been calloused then, his nails kept impeccably trimmed instead of chewed off in haste. His hands had intimately known the weight of a blaster, of a blade. He’d looked the enemy in the eye and grappled them to the ground, broken them beneath the weight of his boot.

He thinks of Kylo on some far-flung planet and can hear the crackle of his plasma blade as if it is right beside his ear. He shivers.

“Captain.” Phasma’s helmet cocks to the side in something that might be a curious expression if the stone-faced chrome could make one. The little holo at the edge of the main display flickers, on-board comms still spotty at best—other repairs made necessary by the mad-dash away from _Starkiller_ more pressing. She responds shortly and waits while Hux glares down at the map display. “Prepare a squadron. We’re going planetside.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has the remainder of the FN-division completed reprogramming?”

“Not quite, sir.”

“I want no chances taken. Make a selection from NZ—the thirteen-hundred group, I think is best equipped.”

“We’re going into enemy territory, then?”

“The heart of it.”

Phasma acknowledges and the comm winks out. Hux is left with his own thoughts for hours until the odd collection of standing officers and new appointees in the wake of _Starkiller_ and the loss of several in the planet-side command chain assemble in the war room. They are arguing over a trivial point when Hux has had enough.

He slams his palms down on the edge of the holotable, making the projection flicker and wobble. “Shut up! All of you! I have had more than my fill of this kriffing _useless_ squabbling. The _Finalizer_ is too conspicuous—she cannot be seen entering the realspace anywhere near the Ileenium system if we’re to have any hope of completing absolutely _any_ objective—let alone one that might have meaningful impact on the Resistance.”

“We’ve already—“ Hux casts a withering look upon the commander who speaks up. “ _You’ve_ already destroyed the Senate. Quite literally, along with three quarters of the sitting Republican representatives. The Order has already made meaningful impact.”

“The Republic, for all of its faults and flaws, has an extensive system of succession. Eliminating their current Senate only meant that those next in line stepped forward. The _meaningful impact_ that I’m searching for is aimed at the heart of them—the singular karking figurehead that holds the entire damned thing together.” Those assembled stiffen, nervous glances are shared all around. “Get rid of them and the Resistance crumbles, they’ll fall into a death spiral while they all grab for power. The Republic will be ripe for ruining then—the disorganization will leave them without a convenient defense since we’ve already dispatched the bulk of their official naval system along with the Hosnian.”

“You’re talking about Organa.”

“Of course I’m talking about Organa. She’s been at the core of this thing since Palpatine. Taking her out of play is the only way the Order will have any avenue toward success.”

“Out of play?”

“So you’re planning on killing her then—that’s why you’re so desperate to get to D’Qar. You think she’s there.”

Hux sneers, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, I think she’s there. All of the flight patterns we’ve been able to detect center on D’Qar, logic dictates that their base of operations is there. Organa likes to be at the center of things—in the shit. She’ll be there as well.” Meaningful expressions press in on him from around the table. “Whether she is captured or killed is entirely up to her.”

Argument erupts once more. Hux struggles to keep his cool over the rising din. Phasma, standing on the opposite side of the table, just beyond the circle of command chairs, purses her lips. She shares a look with Hux before nodding and squaring her shoulders. She slips from the room soundlessly.

Hux roars his frustration across the holotable, silencing the assembly. “Enough! The Order has experienced enough loss to this point. I would hate to see several more command positions become vacant. Attend your respective duties before I have every one of you airlocked.”

His chest heaves with the effort of regaining his composure. He rakes a hand back through his hair. Some of his pomade has become unstuck over the day’s work. The hair beneath is oily with perspiration—efficient atmospheric cooling another causality of keeping the _Finalizer_ afloat.

“We’ll be leaving this system behind for good shortly. Recall any of your personnel that has left the ship or they will be left behind. I suspect we’ll only have one shot at making a jump into hyperspace and I plan on making it worth my while.”

Phasma is waiting outside of the war room, a dangerous air about her even in her casuals. She catches Hux’s eye as he passes, “Sir.”

“Captain.” With an incline of his head she falls into step, conversation halting until they are in the safety of his office. “The troopers are ready, I trust.”

“Yes, sir, they’re looking forward to the ground mission. It’s been some time for the NZ-division.”

“Good. I want them enthusiastic—not sloppy.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll be taking two shuttles. The _Finalizer_ will stay out of the way. There’s an asteroid cluster she can hide in on the other side of the system. There’s enough movement to mask her signal. We’ll make landing as close to the center of things as we can, light the place up.”

“We, sir?” She takes his meaning much more literally this time, and not without warrant.

Hux nods toward the seating area inset into the far side of the office, well away from the door and the air vent. Even on his own ship, at a time of turmoil, there is no concept of _too careful_. “I’m getting my feet on that ground.” His voice has a determined set that makes Phasma’s brow shoot up toward her hairline.

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“Of course, Captain.” Hux has a strong suspicion as to what she’s going to say and he’s happy to hear it. He trusts Phasma for a reason.

“You’ve not engaged in ground operations in some time. If this mission is as important as it seems—“

“You nor your men will have to mind me, Captain. I understand my own limitations quite well. I don’t plan to hinder your operations. I am, however, tired watching this war from the bridge.” He feels his top lip quivering in an expression of disgust. Phasma’s eyes harden. “I won’t watch another victory slip from my fingers—I will take what is mine.”

They speak in hushed tones, heads bent close together. His skin prickles with heat, his blood rushes in his ears. He was always better at close-range combat, his body moving through the motions of attack and parry. Hux shivers, remembering the ozone scent of a plasma bolt discharge.

“I want to make one thing clear.”

“Sir.”

“Organa is _mine_.”

Quiet shock ripples across the bridge when Hux hands over command. They are still a few parsecs off from the Ileenium system, hiding in an open pocket in the asteroid field on their end and well covered from D’Qar’s perspective. He makes his way from the bridge to the hangar bay where Phasma is overseeing last-minute weapons checks and organizing the troopers onto two Upsilons. That she expects to come under heavy fire and wants the ability to stage a hasty retreat is obvious. Hux appreciates the preparation. He knows that this operation has a sense of doom hanging around it, he feels it pressing down on his shoulders.

Not for the first time, he _almost_ wishes he had Kylo and his Knights at his disposal.

They are merciless, brutal, and efficient.

The troopers get the job done. They are exceptionally trained. They understand the gravity of their position. They get in and get out, take care to cut off routes of escape and aid…

But Hux would like to watch D’Qar truly burn.

He will satisfy himself with the anticipation having Organa’s life—the life of the Resistance, the Republic—in his very hands.

A tense hush passes from trooper to trooper when Hux walks among them. He confers with Phasma briefly and boards one of the crafts. She will board the other—less chance of two commanders being lost then if the shuttles are engaged. He feels oddly young in his tactical gear, his stripes shining too brightly and unblemished in the dim light inside the craft.

He checks himself over one last time. His blaster is charged. He has an auxiliary magazine clipped to his hip. The chest plate beneath his jacket is snug, the only kind of embrace that ever mattered in the meanness of post-Imperial life. The vibroblade concealed in his boot is a reassuring weight.

If he is somehow captured, he is not lost.

The squadron leader nods in his direction as they move through the group, checking over troopers at random. Hux appreciates the non-importance placed on his presence aboard the shuttle, as if he was always a fixture there. Before long their craft are departing the hangar bay and cutting smoothly through realspace. They navigate the treacherous asteroid field carefully before jumping into hyperspace to clear the last few parsecs. They drop dangerously close to D’Qar’s atmo in attempt to conceal their approach for as long as possible, making landing just a few clicks south of where they’d detected massive levels of radar and holo-signaling shooting off into space. They couldn’t afford a surveillance sweep—the element of surprise was more valuable than assurance.

The featureless helmet Hux fits over his head deadens the sounds of blasterfire and destruction over the two click trek toward what they believe is the main compound. The troopers flow over the sandy terrain like so many snakes, carving a path toward the head they plan to bite off. The squadron leader covers Hux efficiently without calling attention to how utterly rusty he is in the field. Phasma leads them, blinding chrome in the midday sun.

His breathing echoes back at him in the confines of the helmet, the HUD letting him know that his heartrate is bounding. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck, he blinks it away from his eyes when it clings to his lashes.

The Resistance fighters don’t go down easily. They launch craft, trying to escape—trying to strike from the air. Half of the squadron charges ahead, crippling them before they get far from the ground.

Hux feels alive, his body made of flame—crackling like the bright blade of Ren’s saber. He squeezes the trigger again and again forcing the enemy back and eliminating them when he can.

Until he can’t. The shriek that tears itself from his throat is borne more of surprise than pain. His blaster is knocked from his hand, a little explosion of plasma and shrapnel in the soil. Even with the filter in his helmet, he can smell his scorched flesh. His hand is shaking, flashing hot and cold. Someone ahead screams and falls from their perch atop a slapdash building.

“Sir!” the squadron leader reaches toward him, urging him forward and under their cover.

Hux waves them off, shouting at them to _go_ to _keep moving_ —there are only yards to go, there are already troopers forcing their way into what must be the main building of the compound.

Phasma blasts through the access panel and the door shorts out and slides aside easily. Hux laughs though the pain radiating up from his hand into his shoulder and follows his Captain inside. The emergency lights cast an eerie glow over everything. The base has gone into lockdown. The corridors are blocked in what appears to be a strategic pattern meant to funnel invaders into a contained area. It’s an easy pattern to discern after descending through the first level.

“Sir,” Phasma says, her voice cool even in the middle of this mess. “How would you like to proceed?”

Hux sucks in a deep breath and clenches his shaking hand into as tight a fist as he can manage. “Follow the most heavily protected path. Send the rest to fan out through the remainder of the base.” The squadron leader immediately begins to issue orders over the comm and troopers respond in kind. “Scavenge what’s useful—spare parts, water, rations, weapons—destroy everything else. Burn it to the kriffing ground.”

Hux follows Phasma and the small elite squad at her heels as they press forward, shorting out doors and barriers to clear their path.

“Captain, will y- _ooph!_ ” The air leaves Hux’s chest as he’s knocked to the ground, bowled over by a hard shoulder to the chest and an incredible amount of force. The troopers seem stunned for a moment before they are engaged with additional attackers, pushing them back down the corridor and attempting to avoid ricochet from blasterfire on both sides. Hux struggles with the heavy body on top of him, an armored forearm pressing into his throat. He twists his hips, using the weight of the oaf atop him against them. They struggle on the floor, Hux slamming the heel of his boot into what he approximates is the humanoid’s kidney and their hands moving to wrap about his throat. Realization seems to dawn suddenly on them and their eyes widen.

“K—Kylo Ren.”

Though the pounding in his head and the blood rushing in his ears, Hux laughs. He’s lightheaded with lack of oxygen and an overabundance of adrenaline. “You _fucking_ wish.”

With black spots crowding at the edge of his vision, Hux gathers the last of his strength and rears his head back before slamming it forward. The front of his helmet makes hard contact with the bridge of the humanoid’s nose, which promptly starts gushing blue-grey blood before they slump with loss of consciousness. The hands around his throat loosened, Hux gasps for breath, nauseous with the rush of oxygen into his system.

The _clomp_ of troopers’ boots echoes in the corridor and the humanoid’s prone body is pushed off of him. Hux accepts Phasma’s hand and steadies himself on his feet while his vision swims. “Kriffing nerherder.” He pants and curls his injured hand protectively close. “How many floors are in this place, do we know yet?”

“The main hub is one more floor down. We’ve broken through. If Organa is here, that’s where she’ll be.”

“Good. Let’s hope there won’t be any further surprises.”

They pick their way carefully through the Resistance bodies littering the corridor and follow the squad down a short stairwell. There is a heavily armored door that is already in the process of being disarmed. Over the sounds of the sparking wires and the high-speed vibrodrill, frantic messages are being broadcast from within the hub.

They are through the door in precious minutes.

There is a lone Resistance operative in the room tapping commands into the main console and shouting into the microphone. Hux steps forward and strikes hard with the back of his hand, sending them topping out of their seat and onto the floor.

They spit, red-tinged droplets glittering on their chin. “You’re too late.”

“Too late for what?” Hux slams his boot into their sternum when they try to sit up and a trooper kicks away the blaster they’re attempting to draw. “Where is Organa?”

They sputter, wheezing under the weight of his boot. “The—the general? That—haa—that’s why you—“

“ _Where_?”

Hux leans down and grasps the front of their uniform, hauling them back into their seat. They struggle half-heartedly against his grip. “General Organa hasn’t been here since the Order took out the Hosnian system. You wasted your time.” They hardly respond to the backhanded slap that wallops across their face. Hux places gloved hands about their throat, leans close. The operative’s breath fogs the faceplate of Hux’s helmet, casting the HUD in an eerie glow.

“Where.” It isn’t a question, Hux doesn’t expect it to be answered if it were.

They heave a shuddering breath, windpipe fluttering against Hux’s palms and voice rasping. “You can try whatever Force-trick you want—I couldn’t tell you, I have no idea.”

Hux takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, “En-zee-one-three-seventeen.” The trooper steps forward immediately. “You’re the techie, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find out where those transmissions were sent.”

The operative laughs, “I started wiping the system the minute you all barged in here.”

“I can stop it, sir.” NZ-1317 taps furiously at keys and data streams across displays at an alarming rate.

“So you can’t tell me where Organa’s hiding, mm?” The operative sneers and chokes against the pressure Hux applies with his hands. “Then you’re rather useless, aren’t you?”

“I signed up for this, you nerf-shit. I knew I wasn’t ever leaving here.”

“I’m curious,” Hux purses his lips, considering, “why you assume I’ll use the Force?”

“We knew Kylo Ren would come—he killed Han Solo, who else would he come for next?”

Hux puts his faceplate close to the operative’s ear and whispers, “I’m not him.”

Confusion flashes across the operative’s face, freezing there as the vibroblade from Hux’s boot sinks easily through their uniform and into their chest. They struggle momentarily, hacking breaths against the grip of the hand that remains against their throat, sputtering bright red blood across their chin and the smooth front of Hux’s helmet. Heart pumping wildly in distress, it sprays hot against Hux and the console when he frees his blade. The operative slumps out of their seat and onto the floor.

His hands tremble, body hotwired against pain and heart thumping double-time. “Download whatever data you can salvage and then fry the system.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hux watches blood pool around the dead operative’s slack face and crawl toward his boots while the troopers move around him to work on the consoles under 1317’s direction. The squadron leader approaches, nearly startling him out of his reverie, half-hypnotized by his reflection in the red slick.

“Sir, we’ve located their med-bay. You should have your hand treated—our medic went down in the initial fire-fight but their EmDee’s are functioning and don’t appear to be tampered with.”

Hux looks down at his injured hand, gory against the shredded glove. His dexterity hasn’t suffered beyond a distinct painfulness. He shakes his head and curls stiffening fingers into a fist. “I appreciate the concern, ‘Eighty-two. I’ll wait until we’re back aboard the _Finalizer_. Salvage what you can, see if they’ve got a load-lifter—a couple of grav-carts—and call the shuttles over. Focus on the medical supplies first, weapons and cartridges as well if you can’t find any evidence of sabotage.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Move quickly. I don’t want my men on this rock any longer than necessary. Every minute we spend here gives the Resistance more opportunity to retaliate.”

“Of course sir.”

Hux thumbs at a button under his jaw and his helmet releases with a soft hiss, the HUD fading and turning off as it does. He pulls it off and rakes his good hand through his hair, pomade broken up from activity and perspiration. His hair falls in stiff chunks around his ears. He picks up the dead operative’s blaster from the floor and moves out into the corridor, away from the thick scent of cooling blood.

“General,” Phasma falls into stride relaying a tally of casualties and an estimate of what might be recovered. Hux feels claustrophobic, he needs air. Wary, he moves into the corridor where the last physical attack took place.

“An—anyone. _Please_.” Someone coughs softly and Hux catches movement in the periphery of his vision. “The Ren—it’s not—“

Hux turns toward the sound, pained mumbling, and sees his attacker slumped against the wall, consciousness miraculously regained. He slides the safety of his newly acquired blaster back and levels the barrel.

“Ren isn’t—“

He pulls the trigger and a shocked expression plays across their face for the briefest of seconds. It’s a clean shot, no spray-back. The blaster must have a particularly high frequency setting. Phasma squats beside the now-dead Resistance fighter and plucks the comm unit from their wrist. She pockets it for the techie.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Back on the _Finalizer_ , Hux disembarks from the shuttle before the ramp has finished lowering, dropping down the last foot to the floor exhaustedly. The carefully balanced atmo inside the hangar whips around him in a simulated wind as the second shuttle glides into place and lands. A lieutenant approaches, he can sense her anxiety. Her knuckles are white with her grip on her datapad. She lets out a little gasp with the soft impact of his helmet against her chest, handing it off.

“Find NZ-1317 and coordinate with radar and communications.” The weight of her gaze is heavy, Hux knows he’s disheveled at best. “I want to know where their signals were going. Report only to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two troopers herd a small group of prisoners off of the shuttle, binders about their wrists and secured to stun-cuff belts at their waists. “See that they’re separated, I want no opportunity for them to communicate before or during interrogation.”

“Will we be needing to prepare long-term detention cells?”

Hux purses his lips. The throbbing in his hand has resumed ten-fold. “I imagine not.”

“Do you have any further orders, General?”

“The supplies we recovered, have them checked over carefully. Anything suspicious just…. Airlock it. Let whomever stumbles across this Force-forsaken system next be befuddled.” He imagines spare parts, weapons, and medical supplies floating through the midst of the asteroid field like some kind of apocalyptic refuse cloud. “I’m not to be disturbed for the remainder of the cycle, the bridge has orders. We’re en route to rendezvous with the Admiral as soon as possible.”

“Of course, sir.”

Hux makes his way toward the medbay, daring anyone who crosses his path to comment or inquire. The shift command clears an examination room and attends him personally. Hux grimaces while his glove is peeled away from his hand carefully, his sleeve cut open rather than further disturb the injury in attempt to remove it more conventionally. He watches the careful debridement of the injury, charred bits of flesh picked away and bacta treatment applied.

“It’s a miracle there isn’t more damage, General. You might have lost the hand entirely.” They prompt Hux to push against their fingers with his own, testing the dexterity and strength. “We’re still low on bacta—“

“We’ve recovered a substantial supply from D’Qar.”

“In that case, sir, I can have a tank prepared. You can soak the hand for a while, promote more efficient healing.”

“I assume it will scar.”

“Yes, sir, certainly. Likely even with more extensive treatment. As I’m sure you know, bacta isn’t a cure-all.”

“Will the scarring hinder use of the hand?” He feels detached from the appendage, thinking of it as something separate from himself. It wasn’t hard to do with the amount of numbing solution they’d so carefully injected.

“Minimally perhaps, with attention to rehabilitation over the course of healing, sir.”

“Then forget the tank. Topical treatment is fine. I don’t have time to waste on trifles.”

“You’re positive, sir?”

“Yes.”

They wrap his hand in clean white bandaging. It is impossibly soft in contrast to the rough material of his tactical uniform. He is advised not to get the dressings or the injury wet for a time and to return to the medbay for redressing. Hux moves through the ship in a fog, his sleeve flopping around his forearm. Officers and crew alike give him wide berth. He walks from nearly mid-ship to his quarters, foregoing the droid-piloted transports. The walk gave him time to arrange his thoughts into something more orderly, less like a radiation-damaged holo. His hand shakes as he lifts it to the access panel at his door. He swears under his breath at the bandaging obscuring his third through smallest fingers. If the voice that denied him access to his own domain had been a bodied-person instead of a sim he would have strangled them. The sense memory of the Resistance operative’s pulse fluttering under his fingers, their throat convulsing, sends a sick thrill rolling through his gut. Unbandaged thumb pressed to the panel, he commands a bypass and leans forward for the retinal scan.

Finally, he steps through the threshold of his offices and keys in his _do not disturb_ code. It is a relief to sink down onto the edge of his bed. He presses his lips together, teeth cutting grooves into the fleshy interior side, and muffles a sharp groan of discomfort that no one will hear. The numbing emollient laced through the bacta on his hand has deadened the severity of the pain, but use of the thing makes it flare wildly regardless while he works the fastenings of his boots open. His stomach lurches in a less pleasant way and he pushes through the discomfort to peel off his socks and trousers, fumbling with his belt and holster, dropping his newly-acquired Resistance blaster in the process. The clatter of it rattles through his skull. He rips away the front of his tactical jacket, fabrigrip loud in the quiet room as the soft and clinging sides of it pull apart.

Hux holds his breath, lightheaded as he pulls his injured hand through the remains of the sleeve. He needs to sit down, feeling for the bed behind him and dropping onto it as his knees go jellied. The room spins momentarily and he must lie down to open the durakev under-suit that chafes against his clammy skin.

Finally, _finally_ disrobed he moves on leaden feet to the ‘fresher and steps into the shower stall. Grimacing, he pushes the button to activate the sonic. High-frequency vibrations batter his skin, scouring him clean like a meteor hurtling down through atmo.

Hux avoids the mirror. He doesn’t need to see his raw, red flesh. The sonic has broken up what product still clings to his hair after so many hours in the field, under the helmet watching the HUD. He rips though it with his comb, accumulating errant chunks of pomade and tugged-out strands in the sink. He has no energy left to wash it properly.

He sleeps for nearly an entire shift—the 48-standard-hour cycles aboard the _Finalizer_ lending him sixteen Force-forsaken hours to ruminate consciously and not on why Organa wasn’t on D’Qar and where she could have gone. The numbing emollient loses its potency and his hand throbs to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Hux gulps down lukewarm caf and a packet of gritty synthsust, swallowing down the pair of tablets that the medbay delivers when he calls. He dresses with the help of a confused housekeeping droid and runs a pomade-covered hand through sleep-lank hair.

There is silence on the bridge when he arrives.

Hux listens to the change-of-shift report. There have been no followers, no Resistance craft following them out of the Ileenium system like so many gnats on a nerf carcass. There have been no broadcasts that they have detected giving _any_ indication that the attack was being acknowledged.

He purses his lips, listening as NZ-1317 and the ship’s chief intelligence officer detail what information they have been able to glean—what little hadn’t been damaged or wiped entirely.

Hux dismisses them and stands at his station, great coat draped about his shoulders to hide the pinkish lymph and bacta residue that stains the bandaging on his hand. His own coat, like his gloves, is long gone. The teal-colored govath-synth blend and colonel’s stripe add insult to outrage.

Hux fixes his gaze on faint glow of the nebula at the center of the nearest system and taps in a command to the workstation. “Phasma.”

“Sir. I hadn’t planned to give report until our scheduled meeting during beta-shift. Would you like me to come to the bridge now?”

“No. That’s not necessary.”

“Sir?”

“Make a selection from the NZ division and the newer Z-Twelve spec-ops troopers.”

“The En-Zee are on a mandatory rest cycle, sir.”

“I’m aware. I’d like them prepared—I want a unit reporting exclusively to myself. I suspect we’ll be touching down planet-side again soon. Six or seven should be sufficient.”

Hux listens to his Captain’s assurances and closes the comm. He runs his tongue over the yet-ragged skin around the healed-over split in his lip and wonders, fleetingly, what Ren is doing.

The Resistance, it would seem, thinks him an active agent.

Hux doesn’t mind.

For the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear universe, comments are my lifeblood. 
> 
> I'm still working out the rest of this, I've got an basic outline in my head and I'm trying to fill in the rest to get from Point A to Point B for both Hux and Ren. I needed to get this thing up here before it became another in the WIP graveyard in my docs. I figure, if I post it, I have to finish it. Right? :/
> 
> [star wars nonsense here.](http://avaahren.tumblr.com)


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